Literary Criticism PDF

Introduction In our world it has become more important than ever that we learn to read critically. The events of September 11, 2001 and their aftermath have shown us – with a new urgency – the dangers of misunderstanding and inadequate education. It has become more important than ever that we under...

Introduction In our world it has become more important than ever that we learn to read critically. The events of September 11, 2001 and their aftermath have shown us – with a new urgency – the dangers of misunderstanding and inadequate education. It has become more important than ever that we understand the various voices crying from afar in other languages; and it is just as urgent that we understand the bewildering multitude of voices in our own culture. In order to make sense of our own present, we need to understand our own past. We need to look critically at the various documents, cultural, political, and religious, which furnish our identity, which tell us who we are, who we should be, and what we might become. As a black American scholar has recently said, “the challenge of mutual understanding among the world’s multifarious cultures will be the single greatest task that we face, after the failure of the world to feed itself.”1 It has become indisputably clear that the study of the humanities in general is no longer a luxury but a necessity, vital to our very survival as an enlightened civilization. We cannot form an articulate vision of our own moral, educational, and political values without some knowledge of where those values come from, the struggles in which they were forged, and the historical contexts which generated those struggles. To study the Bible, Plato, Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, or Roman Law, to study Jewish or AfricanAmerican history, to examine the Qur’an and the long history of the Western world’s fraught engagement with Islam, is to study the sources of the conflicts and cultural tendencies which inform our present world. One of the keys to counteracting those forces which would keep us in darkness lies in education, and in particular in the process which forms the core of education: the individual and institutional practice of reading, of close, careful, critical reading. Such reading entails a great deal more than merely close attention to the words on the page, or the text as it immediately confronts us. We need to know why a text was written, for whom it was written, what religious or moral or politicalpurposes motivated it, as well as its historical and cultural circumstances.. At the most basic level, we might say that the practice of literary criticism is applied to various given texts. The theory is devoted to examining the principles behind such practice. We might say that theory is a systematic explanation of practice or a situation of 1 practice in broader framework; theory brings to light the motives behind our practice; it shows us the connection of practice to ideology, power structures, our own unconscious, our political and religious attitudes, our economic structures; above all, theory shows us that practice is not something natural but is a specific historical construct. Hence, to look over the history of literary criticism, a journey we are about to undertake in this book, is not only to revisit some of the profoundest sources of our identity but also to renew our connections with some of the deepest resources of our present and future sustenance. The history of literary criticism is profoundly imbricated in the history of thought in a broad range of spheres, philosophical, religious, social, economic, and psychological. ANCIENT GREEK CRITICISM CLASSICAL LITERARY CRITICISM: INTELLECTUAL AND POLITICAL BACKGROUNDS Our English word “criticism” derives from the ancient Greek term krites, meaning “judge.” Perhaps the first type of criticism was that which occurred in the process of poetic creation itself: in composing his poetry, a poet would have made certain “judgments” about the themes and techniques to be used in his verse, about what his audience was likely to approve, and about his own relationship to his predecessors in the oral or literary tradition. Hence, the creative act itself was also a critical act, involving not just inspiration but some kind of self-assessment, reflection, and judgment. Moreover, in ancient Greece, the art of the “rhapsode” or professional singer involved an element of interpretation: a rhapsode would usually perform verse that he himself had not composed, and his art must have been a highly self-conscious and interpretative one, In this broad sense, literary criticism goes at least as far back as archaic Greece, which begins around 800 years before the birth of Christ. This is the era of the epic poets Homer and Hesiod, and of the lyric poets Archilochus, Ibycus, Alcaeus, and Sappho. What we call the “classical” period emerges around 500 BC, the period of the great dramatists Euripides, Aeschylus, and Sophocles, the philosophers Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, the schools of rhetoric, and the rise of Athenian democracy and power. After this is the “Hellenistic” period, witnessing the diffusion of Greek culture through much of the Mediterranean and Middle East, a diffusion vastly accelerated by the conquests of Alexander the Great, and the various dynasties established by his generals after his death 2 in 323 BC. Over the Hellenized domains there was a common ruling class culture, using a common literary dialect and a common education system.2 The city of Alexandria in Egypt, founded by Alexander in 331 BC, became a center of scholarship and letters, housing an enormous library and museum, and hosting such renowned poets and grammarians as Callimachus, Apollonius Rhodius, Aristarchus, and Zenodotus. We know of these figures partly through the work of Suetonius (ca. 69–140 AD), who wrote the first histories of literature and criticism.3 The Hellenistic period is usually said to end with the battle of Actium in 31 BC in which the last portion of Alexander’s empire, Egypt, was annexed by the increasingly powerful and expanding Roman republic. After his victory at Actium, the entire Roman world fell under the sole rulership of Julius Caesar’s nephew, Octavian, soon to become revered as the first Roman emperor, Augustus. During this span of almost a thousand years, poets, philosophers, rhetoricians, grammarians, and critics laid down many of the basic terms, concepts, and questions that were to shape the future of literary criticism as it evolved all the way through to our own century. These include the concept of “mimesis” or imitation; the concept of beauty and its connection with truth and goodness; the ideal of the organic unity of a literary work; the social, political, and moral functions of literature; the connection between literature, philosophy, and rhetoric; the nature and status of language; the impact of literary performance on an audience; the definition of figures of speech such as metaphor, metonymy, and symbol; the notion of a “canon” of the most important literary works; and the development of various genres such as epic, tragedy, comedy, lyric poetry, and song. The first recorded instances of criticism go back to dramatic festivals in ancient Athens, which were organized as contests, requiring an official judgment as to which author had produced the best drama. A particularly striking literary-critical discussion occurs in Aristophanes’ play The Frogs, first performed in 405 BC, just before the ending of the Peloponnesian War in 404 BC in the utter defeat of Athens at the hands of its rival, Sparta. It may seem odd, in our age of highly technical and specialized approaches to literature, that literary criticism should be used to entertain and amuse a large audience of several thousand people. 3. In fact, the chorus in the play itself commends the erudition of the audience, claiming that the citizens are so “sharp” and “keen” that they will not miss “a single point.”4 The plot of Aristophanes’ comedy is built around the idea that there are no good poets left in the world; the current living dramatists are “jabberers... degraders of their art” (Frogs, l. 93). The only way of obtaining the services of a good poet is to bring a dead one back from Hades. In order to determine which of the dead tragedians, Euripides or Aeschylus, is the more suitable for this task, a trial is conducted before the court of Pluto, the god of the underworld. The judge of course will be Dionysus, the patron god of drama. This is not merely a contest between two literary theories, representing older and younger generations; it is a contest in poetic art (Frogs, ll. 786, 796). Aeschylus represents the more traditional virtues of a bygone generation, such as martial prowess, heroism, and respect for social hierarchy – all embodied in a lofty, decorous, and sublime style of speech – while Euripides is the voice of a more recent, democratic, secular, and plain-speaking generation. In talking of the general functions of poetry, Aeschylus explains that poets such as Orpheus have taught humankind religious rites, moral codes, and medicine; Hesiod gave instruction concerning farming; and Homer sang of valor, honor, and the execution of war (Frogs, ll. 1030–1036). Aeschylus places himself in this tradition, reminding the audience how his own dramas inspired manly passions for war (Frogs, ll. 1021, 1040). He cautions that “we, the poets, are teachers of men” and that the “sacred poet” should avoid depicting any kind of evil, especially the harlotry and incest that we can find in Euripides (Frogs, l. 1055). Euripides agrees that in general the poet is valued for his “ready wit” and wise counsels, and because he trains the citizens to be “better townsmen and worthier men” (Frogs, l. 1009). But he claims that, in contrast with Aeschylus, he himself employs a “democratic” manner, allowing characters from all classes to speak, showing “scenes of common life,” and teaching the public to reason (Frogs, ll. 952, 959, 971–978). He insists that the poet should speak in “human fashion,” and accuses Aeschylus of using language that is “bombastiloquent,” obscure, and repetitious (Frogs, ll. 839, 1122, 1179). Aeschylus rejoins that a high style and lofty speech is appropriate for “mighty thoughts and heroic aims” (Frogs, ll. 1058–1060); and he upbraids Euripides for teaching the youth of the city to 4 “prate, to harangue, to debate... to challenge, discuss, and refute,” as well as bringing to the stage “debauchery” and “scandal” (Frogs, ll. 1070–1073). Ultimately, to great comic effect, a pair of scales is brought in, showing Aeschylus’ verse to be “weightier” (Frogs, ll. 1366, 1404–1410). Significantly, there are two factors involved in deciding the issue: Dionysus explains that not only does Athens need a true poet who will enable her to continue with her dramatic festivals and “choral games,” but this poet will be called upon to give the city some much-needed advice on a political problem, namely, what should be done about Alcibiades (a brilliant but selfish and indulgent general currently in exile and who had been a threat to the state and the democracy) (Frogs, ll. 1419–1422). Aeschylus basically repeats the advice offered at the beginning of the war by the Athenian statesman Pericles: that Athens’ true wealth lies in her fleet. Dionysus pronounces as victor Aeschylus in whom his “soul delights” (Frogs, ll. 1465–1467). Interestingly, the chorus sings the praises of Aeschylus as a “[k]een intelligent mind.” This intelligence, however, is of a peculiar kind; it embodies the wisdom required for the art of tragedy; and it is pointedly contrasted with the “[i]dle talk” and “[f]ine-drawn quibbles” of the philosopher Socrates (Frogs, ll. 1489– 1497). This quarrel between poetry and philosophy will surface again and again in the history of literary criticism. It is clear that Aristophanes’ play both embodies and enacts the civic duty of poetry and literary criticism. In fact, the play was uniquely honored by being acted a second time, since Aeschylus was deemed to have performed an important patriotic service to the city (Frogs, Introd., p. 293). Such an accolade may rest on his evident call for Athenians – about to suffer a humiliating military defeat – to return to the martial and “manly” values represented by Aeschylean drama. His play The Frogs stages the drama of Athens’ political and cultural dilemma as a literary-critical dilemma. This first recorded instance of a sustained literary-critical debate reveals a number of salient features of both poetry and criticism in the ancient Greek world. Firstly, our sometimes narrow focus on the “purely” aesthetic or literary dimension of a text would have been incomprehensible to the ancient Greeks; poetry for them was an important element in the educational process; its ramifications extended over morality, religion, and the entire sphere of civic responsibility; as such, poetry itself was a forum for the discussion of larger issues; it owed a large measure of its high esteem to its public and political nature, as well as to its technical or artistic dimension. In fact, these various dimensions of poetry and literature were not 5 mutually separated as they sometimes appear to be for us. Hence, to understand the origins and nature of literary criticism in the Greek world – especially in the work of Plato and Aristotle, which we shall look at soon – we need to know something of the political, social, and intellectual forces that shaped their understanding of the world. Political and Historical Contexts “Classical” Athens in the fifth century BC – just prior to the time of Plato – was a thriving democratic city-state with a population estimated at about 300,000. However, this democracy differed considerably from our modern democracies: not only was it a direct rather than a representative democracy, it was also highly exclusive. Only the adult male citizens, numbering about 40–45,000, were eligible to participate in the decision-making process. The rest of the community, composed of women, resident aliens, and a vast number of slaves, formed a permanently excluded majority. Even most free men, whether working on the land or in the cities, were poor and had little hope of economic betterment (LWC, 32). This circumstance, widespread in the Greek world, was responsible in part not only for class conflict but also for a perennial struggle between different forms of government. The philosophies and literary theories of both Plato and Aristotle were integrally shaped by awareness of these political struggles. By this stage of her history, Athens was not only a democracy but also an imperial power, head of the so-called Delian League of more than a hundred city-states, from whom she exacted tribute. Her rise to such predominance had been relatively recent and swift, though democracy itself had taken some centuries to evolve, displacing earlier systems such as oligarchy or tyranny and monarchy where power had resided in the hands of a small elite or one man. By 500 BC the tyrants had been overthrown in all the major Greek cities (LWC, 31). The ideals of social equality and democratic structure were furthered in Athens by leaders and lawgivers such as Solon, who made the law courts democratic; Cleisthenes, who organized the political structure into ten tribes, each represented by 50 members in the Council of the Areopagus; and Pericles, who instituted pay for people to serve as state officials, so that such service might not be a privilege of the wealthy. In his funeral oration, Pericles defined democracy as a system in which power lies in the hands of “the whole people,” “everyone is equal before the law,” and public responsibility is determined not by class but by “actual ability.” 6 ). The city was alive with free political discussion and intellectual inquiry. Pericles called Athens the “school of Hellas” (LWC, 35). In all of these historical circumstances, there were at least three developments that profoundly influenced the nature of literature and criticism, as well as of philosophy and rhetoric. The first was the evolution of the polis or city-state. The Greeks differentiated between themselves and the non-Greeks known as “barbarians” primarily by this political structure, the polis, which alone in their view could allow man to achieve his full potential as a human being. When Aristotle defined man as a “political animal,” it was this structure that he had in mind. As the scholar M. I. Finley puts it, the polis was comprised of “people acting in concert, a community,” where people could “assemble and deal with problems face to face” (LWC, 27–28). As later thinkers such as Hegel, Marx, and Durkheim reiterated, man’s very being is social and public in its essential orientation, and his own fulfillment lies in advancing, not sacrificing, the public interest. These assumptions are common to the otherwise differing literary theories of Plato and Aristotle, who are both obliged to consider literature as a public or state concern. Finley states that “religion and culture were as much public concerns as economics or politics... the great occasions for religious ceremonial, for music, drama, poetry and athletics, were the public festivals, local or pan-Hellenic. With the state thus the universal patron, Greek tragedy and comedy... were as much part of the process of faceto-face discussion as a debate in a legislative assembly” (LWC, 28). Even the internal structure of drama was influenced by the ideal of the polis: the chorus (whether comprised of a group of dancers and singers, or a single speaking character) was the representative of the community or polis. As Gregory Nagy so eloquently puts it, the chorus was a “microcosm of social hierarchy,” and embodied “an educational collectivisation of experience” (l. T. H. Irwin states that “Athenian dramatic festivals took the place of some of the mass media familiar to us.”6 No one was more deeply aware than Plato of the cultural impact of literature. In fact, Irwin points out that the “moral outlook of the Homeric poems permanently influenced Greek thought,” in ways that conflicted with democratic attitudes. We might add that Plato – no democrat – also took great pains to counter the influence of Homer and the poets. Poetry had a primary role in education: children were taught letters for the purpose of memorizing poetry and ultimately of performing and interpreting it (CHLC, V.I, 74). In the ancient Greek world, poetry not 7 only had a public nature but also served several functions which have been displaced in our world by news media, film, music, religious education, and the sciences. Ironically, as we shall see, the image of Plato himself looms behind some of these long-term displacements. The second political development pertinent to literature and criticism lay in the fact that Athens’ predominance in the Greek world did not go unchallenged. The other major power in the Greek world was Sparta, who counterbalanced Athens’ leadership of the Delian League with her own system of defensive alliances known as the Peloponnesian League. The struggle between these two superpowers was not only military but also ideological: Athens everywhere attempted to foster her own style of democracy, whereas Sparta everywhere encouraged her own brand of oligarchy. This struggle convulsed the entire Greek world and eventually led to the Peloponnesian War, which lasted twenty- seven years, beginning in 431 BC and ending with the utter defeat of Athens in 404 BC. The first twenty-four years of Plato’s life were lived during this war, and the issues raised by the conflict affected many areas of his thought, including his literary theory. ). It was during this repressive period that Socrates was tried and executed in 399 BC on a charge of impiety. The Spartans imposed another oligarchy in 404 BC, the so-called regime of the “thirty,” which included two of Plato’s relatives, Critias and Charmides, who were also friends of Socrates. In 403, however, democracy was restored after a civil struggle. The struggle was effectively between two ways of life, between the “open-minded social and cultural atmosphere” of Athenian democracy, and the “rigidly controlled, militaristic” oligarchy of Sparta (CCP, 60–62). It was this struggle which underlay the opposition between Plato’s anti-democratic and somewhat authoritarian philosophical vision and the more fluid, skeptical, and relativistic visions expressed by poetry, sophistic, and rhetoric. A third factor that shaped the evolution of literature in archaic and classical Greece was pan-Hellenism, or the development of certain literary ideals and standards among the elites of the various city-states of Greece (CHLC, V.I, 22). Gregory Nagy points out that pan- Hellenism was crucial in the process of the continuous modification and diffusion of the Homeric poems and of poetry generally. It is well known that the Iliad and the Odyssey were products of an oral tradition, cumulatively composed over a long period of time; a given poet would take a story whose basic content was already familiar and modify it in the process of his own retelling; in turn, he would pass these poetic skills and this poetic 8 lore down through his own successors. Nagy’s point is that the process of “ongoing recomposition and diffusion” of the Homeric and other poems acquired a degree of stability in virtue of the development of pan-Hellenism. The standardization of literary ideals led to a process of decreasing novelty and “textfixation” in “ever-widening circles of diffusion” (CHLC, V.I, 34). According to Nagy then, pan-Hellenism had a number of important consequences. Firstly, it provided a context in which poetry was no longer merely an expression or ritual reenactment of local myths. The traveling poet was obliged to select those aspects of myth common to the various locales he visited. “poet” or singer evolved into the concept of “the master of truth.” The poet becomes the purveyor of truth, which is general, as distinct from myth, which is local and particular. Interestingly, Nagy etymologically relates the word mousa or “muse” to mne, which means “have the mind connected with.” In this reading, the muse “is one who connects the mind with what really happens in the past, present, and future” A second consequence of pan-Hellenism, furthering the process of standardization, was the evolution of a certain group or “canon” of texts into the status of classics (CHLC, V.I, 44). It was in the period of Alexandrian scholarship that the term “criticism” or “judgment” was used to differentiate between works that deserved to be included within a canon.. The third, related, consequence was the development of the concept of imitation or mimesis into a “concept of authority.” Mimesis designates “the re-enactment, through ritual, of the events of myth” by the poet; it also designates “the present re-enacting of previous re-enactments,” as in the performer’s subsequent imitation of the poet. Mimesis becomes an authoritative concept inasmuch as the author speaks with the authority of myth which is accepted as not local but universal, timeless, and unchanging. It becomes an “implicit promise” that the performer will coin no changes to “accommodate the interests of any local audience,” and will give rise to “the pleasure of exact performance” All of these developments outlined by Nagy might be seen as pointing in one general direction: over the centuries, from Homeric times onward, poetry had acquired an increasing authority, established in its function as a repository of universal myth and truth, its fixation into a canon of privileged texts which were no longer open to recomposition but merely to exact imitation or performance, and the predominating educational role of poetry in this exalted status. A final point that we can take from Nagy’s splendid account 9 of early Greek views of poetry is that by the time of Plato, the theater had become the primary medium of poetry, absorbing the repertoire of both epic and lyric. Tragedy had become the craft of poetry par excellence (CHLC, V.I, 66–67). The stage is almost set for our understanding of the literary theories of Plato and Aristotle; The single most important factor in understanding Plato’s conception of poetry is precisely the authority and status it had achieved by his time. As we have seen, the evolution of this authority had been multifaceted: poetry claimed to present a vision of the world, of the gods, of ethics and morality that was true. Poetry was not only the repository of collective wisdom, as accumulated over the ages, but was also the expression of universalized myth. It had a public function that was most evident in its supreme embodiment, tragedy, which assumed for the ancient Greeks the roles of our theologies and religious institutions, our histories, our modern mass media, our education system, and our various modes of ascertaining truth. There are a number of intellectual currents which formed the background of the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle. Interestingly, these currents merged in important ways with the main stream of culture that was comprised by poetry. The first of these was sophistic, which arose in fifth-century Athens, and whose major exponents such as Protagoras and Gorgias were contemporaries of Plato. The second was rhetoric, the art of public speaking, an art vital to the effective functioning of Athenian democracy. Both the Sophists and the rhetoricians offered training in public debate and speaking, often for very high fees; their curriculum aimed to prepare young men of the nobility for political life. rhetoric was, strictly speaking, restricted to the techniques of argument and persuasion; the more ambitious Sophists promised a more general education extending over the areas considered by philosophy: morality, politics, as well as the nature of reality and truth (CCP, 64, 66). Plato was opposed to both sophistic and rhetoric. He objected to sophistic accounts of the world, which were essentially secular, humanistic, and relativistic. These accounts rejected the authority of religion and viewed truth as a human and pragmatic construct. In other words, there was no truth which ultimately stood above or beyond human perception. What Plato rejects in rhetoric is also based on its alleged exclusion of truth: rhetoric is concerned not with truth but merely with persuasion, often preying on the ignorance of 10 an audience and merely pandering to its prejudices rather than seeking a moral and objective foundation. Much of Plato’s philosophy is generated by a desire to impose order on chaos, to enclose change and temporality within a scheme of permanence, and to ground our thinking about morality, politics, and religion on timeless and universal truths that are independent of human cognition. So profound was Plato’s opposition to sophistical and rhetorical ways of thinking that his own philosophy is internally shaped and generated by negating their claims. His so-called dialectical method, which proceeds by systematic question and answer, arises largely in contradistinction to their methods. What is important for us is that Plato finds the same vision of the world in literature. In fact, he sees tragedy as a form of rhetoric. T. H. Irwin states that “[i]n attacking rhetoric, Plato also attacks a much older Athenian institution, tragic drama.” Like rhetoric, tragedy “makes particular moral views appear attractive to the ignorant and irrational audience” ( Hence, for Plato, sophistic and rhetoric effectively expressed a vision of the world that had long been advanced by the much older art of poetry. What was that poetic vision? It was a vision going all the way back to Homer: we may recall the squabbling between Zeus and his queen Hera, the laughable scene with Hephaestus, the disputes between various goddesses such as Athena and Aphrodite, and in general the often indecorous conduct of the gods. This is a vision of the world as ruled by chance, a world where “natural processes are basically irregular and unpredictable” where “gods can interfere with them or manipulate them as they please” (CCP, 52). Plato firmly rejects this undignified and unsystematic (and perhaps liberal) vision. As many scholars have pointed out, partly on Aristotle’s authority, Plato’s own ideas were indebted to a pre- Socratic tradition of naturalism, which attempts to offer an alternative account of the world, one that is not poetic or mythical or based on tradition but which appeals rather to natural processes in the service of a rational explanation. In Plato’s view, the gods are “entirely just and good, with no anger, jealousy, spite or lust.” Both of these views, says Irwin, existed in an unreconciled fashion in Greek tradition (CCP, 52–53). Moreover, like the naturalists, Socrates and Plato distinguished between mere 11 evidence of the senses, which was “appearance,” and an underlying reality accessible only through reason (CCP, 54). In other words, Greek philosophy begins as a challenge to the monopoly of poetry and the extension of its vision in more recent trends such as sophistic and rhetoric. Plato’s opposition of philosophy to poetry effectively sets the stage for more than two thousand years of literary theory and criticism. Chapter one PLATO (428–CA. 347 BC) t is widely acknowledged that the Greek philosopher Plato laid the foundations of Western philosophy. The mathematician and philosopher A. N. Whitehead emphasized this point when he stated that Western philosophy is a series of footnotes to Plato. While this claim may be exaggerated, it rightly suggests that Plato gave initial formulation to the most basic questions and problems of Western thought: How can we define goodness and virtue? How do we arrive at truth and knowledge? What is the connection between soul and body? What is the ideal political state? Of what use are literature and the arts? Plato’s answers to these questions are still disputed; Plato was born in 428 bc in Athens to a family of long aristocratic lineage, a fact which must eventually have shaped his philosophy at many levels. At the age of 20, Plato, like many other young men, fell under the spell of the controversial thinker and teacher Socrates. The impact on Plato was profound: he relinquished his political ambitions and devoted himself to philosophy. In a story later to be recounted in Plato’s Apology, Socrates had been hailed by the Oracle at Delphi as “the wisest man alive.” Incredulous as to the truth of this, Socrates was nonetheless inspired to devote his life to the pursuit of knowledge, wisdom, and virtue. Using a dialectical method of question and answer, he would often arouse hostility by deflating the pretensions of those who claimed to be wise and who professed to teach. A wide range of people, including rhetoricians, poets, politicians, and artisans, felt the razor edge of his intellect. Socrates’ unpopularity in some circles was aggravated by his undermining of conventional views of goodness and truth as well as by his opposition to the principles of democracy. Eventually he was tried on a charge of impiety and condemned to death in 399 bc. After the death of his revered master, Plato left Athens and traveled to Italy, Sicily, and Egypt. He later returned, to found 12 an Academy (together with the mathematician Thaetetus) in Athens. As indicated by the inscription at the entrance – “Let none without geometry enter” – geometry was foremost in the curriculum, along with mathematics and philosophy. Plato’s thought was influenced by a number of pre-Socratic thinkers who rejected the physical world known through our senses as mere “appearance.” They sought to describe a reality underlying physical appearances. Heraclitus’ theory was that all things in the universe are in a state of flux; Parmenides viewed reality as unchanging and unitary. Plato was also influenced by mathematical concepts derived from Pythagoras. From Socrates, Plato learned the dialectical method of pursuing truth by a systematic questioning of received ideas and opinions (“dialectic” derives from the Greek dialegomai, “to converse”). As exhibited in his early dialogues, he also inherited Socrates’ central concern with ethical issues and with the precise definition of moral concepts.. The canon attributed to Plato includes thirty-five dialogues and thirteen letters. The authenticity of some of the dialogues and of all the letters has been questioned. It has become conventional to divide Plato’s dialogues according to early, middle, and later periods of composition. Most scholars seem to agree that the early dialogues expound the central philosophical concerns and method of Socrates. These dialogues, which include the Apology, Charmides, Crito, Euthyphro, Gorgias, Ion, Laches, Protagoras, Lysis, and the first book of the Republic, are devoted to exploring and defining concepts such as virtue, temperance, courage, piety, and justice. Such early works exhibit a naturalist tendency to seek by rational analysis a definition of the essence of such concepts, challenging and often rejecting their meanings as conferred by conventional authority and tradition. For example, in Euthyphro Socrates rejects the definition of piety as that which merely happens to please the gods; rather, an act pleases the gods because it is pious; hence the essence of piety must be sought elsewhere. In general, both Socrates and Plato reject the morally incoherent vision of the universe – found in Homer, Sophocles, and other poets – as disordered, irregular, unpredictable, and subject to the whims of the gods. The major dialogues of Plato’s middle period – Gorgias, Meno, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Symposium, Republic – move beyond the largely moral concerns of the historical Socrates into the realms of epistemology (theory of knowledge), metaphysics, political theory, and 13 art. The style of the dialogues changes. Whereas the earlier dialogues presented Socrates in the role of a systematic questioner, he is now made to expound Plato’s own doctrines in lengthy expositions that go largely unchallenged. At this stage of Plato’s development, what unifies these various concerns is his renowned theory of Forms, underlain by his increasing reverence for mathematics as an archetype or model of human inquiry. It should be said that Plato was reacting not only against the disordered and mythical vision of the world offered by the poets but also against the skepticism of thinkers such as Democritus and Protagoras, who had both effectively rejected the notion of a truly objective world existing somehow outside the human mind and independent of human interpretation. The theory of Forms, expounded systematically in the Phaedo and the Republic, can be summarized as follows. The familiar world of objects which surrounds us, and which we apprehend by our senses, is not independent and self-sufficient. Indeed, it is not the real world (even though the objects in it exist) because it is dependent upon another world, the realm of pure Forms or ideas, which can be apprehended only by reason and not by our bodily sense perceptions. What is the connection between the two realms? Plato says that the qualities of any object in the physical world are derived from the ideal Forms of those qualities. For example, an object in the physical world is beautiful because it partakes of the ideal Form of Beauty which exists in the higher realm.. The connection between the two realms can best be illustrated using examples from geometry: any triangle or square that we construct using physical instruments is bound to be imperfect. At most it can merely approximate the ideal triangle which is perfect and which is perceived not by the senses but by reason: the ideal triangle is not a physical object but a concept, an idea, a Form. According to Plato, the world of Forms, being changeless and eternal, alone constitutes reality. It is the world of essences, unity, and universality, whereas the physical world is characterized by perpetual change and decay, Similarly, “Goodness” – which Plato regards as the primal Form – can be used to classify a broad range of actions and attitudes, which would otherwise remain mutually disparate and unconnected. We can see, then, that a central function of the theory of Forms is to unify groups of objects or concepts in the world, referring them back to a common essence, and thereby to help make 14 A renowned expression of Plato’s theory occurs in the seventh book of the Republic where he recounts, through his main speaker Socrates, the so-called “myth of the cave.” Socrates outlines the following scenario: Picture men dwelling in a sort of subterranean cavern with a long entrance open to the light on its entire width. Conceive them as having their legs and necks fettered from childhood, so that they remain in the same spot, able to look forward only, and prevented by the fetters from turning their heads. Picture further the light from a fire burning higher up and at a distance behind them, and between the fire and the prisoners and above them a road along which a low wall has been built... See also... men carrying past the wall implements of all kinds that rise above the wall, and human images and shapes of animals as well, wrought in stone and wood and every material, some of these bearers presumably speaking and others silent. Since the men are facing the wall of the cave with their backs to the opening, they can see only shadows, cast by the fire on that wall, of the people and objects which are passing behind them. When these people speak, they will hear the echo from the wall, imagining the passing shadows to be the speakers. Plato’s point is that people who have known only these shadows will take them for realities: if they were forced to stand up and turn around, they would, at first dazzled by the light coming into the entrance of the cave, be unable to see the objects whose shadows they had previously seen. Indeed, they would insist that those shadows were more real. If they were now forced to ascend the road, which was “rough and steep,” they would be yet more blinded. After habituating themselves to the new light, however, they would gradually discern the shadows and reflections of the real objects and eventually would be able “to look upon the sun,” realizing that it “presides over all things in the visible region,” and was in a sense their underlying “cause” (Republic, 515c–516c). These people, newly enlightened, would now pity those who still dwelt in the darkness of the cave mistaking shadows for reality. Plato makes it clear that the cave in which men are imprisoned represents the physical world, and that the journey toward the light is the “soul’s ascension” to the world of Forms, the highest of which, like the sun, is the Form of the Good which is “the cause... of all that is right and beautiful” (Republic, 517b–c). As beautiful as this myth is, there are many problems with Plato’s theory of Forms. For one thing, he himself is never unequivocally clear as to what precisely is the connection 15 between the realm of Forms and the physical world; the Greek words he uses can be translated as “imitation,” “participation,” and “commonness.” Plato on Poetry Plato makes comments on poetry in many of his dialogues. In the Apology, Socrates affirms that poetry derives from inspiration rather than wisdom, and he also remarks on the pretensions of poets to knowledge that they do not possess (22c–d). The Phaedrus distinguishes between productive and unproductive inspiration (245a), as well as between the relative virtues of speech and writing. And the Cratylus discusses, inconclusively, various aspects of the nature of language, such as the connection between words and things.. Plato’s most systematic comments on poetry, however, occur in two texts, separated by several years. The first is Ion, where Socrates cross-examines a rhapsode or singer on the nature of his art. The second, more sustained, commentary occurs in the Republic, some of which is reiterated in a more practical context in the Laws. In the first of these dialogues, Socrates discourses with a rhapsode (a singer and interpreter) named Ion. In Socrates’ understanding, there are basically two components of the rhapsodist’s art: learning the lines of a given poet must be backed by understanding of his thought (Ion, 530b–c). Most of Socrates’ argument concerning rhapsody addresses its interpretative, critical function rather than its musical and emotional power. Throughout the ostensible “dialogue,” Ion acts as the willing and naive tool of Socrates’ own perspective, unwittingly dragged through the implications of his own initial boast that he “of all men... [has] the finest things to say on Homer” (Ion, 530c). Characteristically, Socrates’ strategy is not to contradict this statement directly but to unfold various contexts in whose light the connections between the constituent elements of Ion’s claim very precisely emerge as absurd. Ion’s claim is strangely self-limited: he claims to recite and interpret only one poet, Homer, and to be ignorant of and indifferent to the work of other poets (Ion, 531a). Socrates demonstrates to Ion that genuine knowledge must have a comparative basis: if one can talk about how Homer excels in certain features, one must also be able to talk about how other poets are deficient in these respects According to Socrates, the rhapsode, like the poet himself, is in a state of “divine possession” and speaks not with his own voice, which is merely a medium through which 16 a god speaks. The Muse inspires the poet, who in turn passes on this inspiration to the rhapsode, who produces an inspired emotional effect on the spectators (Ion, 534c–e). Socrates likens this process to a magnet, which transmits its attractive power to a series of iron rings, which in turn pass on the attraction to other rings, suspended from the first set. The Muse is the magnet or loadstone; the poet is the first ring, the rhapsode is the middle ring, and the audience the last one (Ion, 533a, 536a–b). In this way, the poet conveys and interprets the utterances of the gods, and the rhapsode interprets the poets. Hence, the rhapsodes are “interpreters of interpreters” (Ion, 535a). The poet, insists Socrates, is “a light and winged thing, and holy, and never able to compose until he has become inspired, and is beside himself, and reason is no longer in him” (Ion, 534b). Not only poetry, according to Socrates, but even criticism is irrational and inspired. Hence, in this early dialogue, composed several years before the Republic, Plato has already sharply separated the provinces of poetry and philosophy; the former has its very basis in a divorce from reason, which is the realm of philosophy; poetry in its very nature is steeped in emotional transport and lack of self-possession. Having said this, Plato in this earlier dialogue accords poetry a certain reverence: he speaks of the poet as “holy,” and as divinely inspired. Plato’s theory of poetry in the Republic is much less flattering. In fact, a modern-day reader is likely to be exasperated at the space devoted to poetry in what is, after all, a political tract concerned primarily with justice in both individual and state. In general, political commentators have devoted their attention to the notion of justice while literary critics have tended to isolate the commentary on aesthetics from the overall discussion.4 However, there is an intimate connection between Plato’s aesthetics and his formulation of the ideal of justice. Plato’s entire conception of justice arises explicitly in opposition to poetic lore, and the close connection between poetry and justice shapes the entire discussion, in political as well as aesthetic terms. It will be useful to consider three broad issues: (1) how Plato’s commentary on poetry structures the form of his text; (2) the political motivations of Plato’s aesthetics; and (3) the underlying philosophical premises of these aesthetics as well as the contradictions in Plato’s argument. made to hear a number of other, more popular, definitions. In characteristic dialectical strain, the Socratic version is cumulatively articulated as a refutation of those popular assessments, finding its very premises within their negation. Hence what is at stake is not 17 simply an impartial pursuit of the meaning of justice argued directly from first principles, but have That poetry, as the most articulate voice of ideology, must be subjected to constant vigilance lest it unleash forces which undermine the political, economic, and legal structure suggests that Plato accredited it with an inherent subversiveness, a mark of his hypostatization of the entire realm of poetry. Before examining this reductive account of poetic form, however, the precise nature of poetry’s subversive potential as elaborated by Plato needs to be evinced. Socrates suggests that justice would better be examined first in a city rather than as characterizing an individual, on the grounds that justice in the “larger” object will be more clearly discernible (II, 368e). Given that the desired city will be wise, brave, sober, and just (IV, 427e), the guardians themselves must possess a number of qualities: keen senses, strength, bravery, high-spiritedness, and love of wisdom (376e). Plato regards both music and gymnastics as directed to the improvement of the soul: gymnastics alone would foster a brutal and harsh disposition, while an exclusively musical training would render the soul too soft. Hence the guardians’ nature must achieve a harmony between both dispositions, high-spiritedness on the one hand, and gentleness, together with a love of knowledge, on the other. Plato’s terminology here is revealing: such a guardian would be “the most perfect and harmonious musician” (III, 410c–412a). This terminology enables us better to understand just how Plato conceives of poetry as an ideologically destabilizing force. The harmony in the soul of the guardian is not innate; it is achieved only by long training and ideological inculcation. In describing such a guardian as a musician, in arrogating to this class of society the governance of music, in appropriating from poets themselves jurisdiction over their art, Plato is once again marking out music as the arena of ideological conflict between poetry and philosophy. Poetry’s main threat resides in its ability to upset the finely attuned balance achieved as a model of subjectivity in rulers. In book X, Plato will allege that poetry establishes a “vicious constitution” in the soul, setting up emotions as rulers in place of reason (X, 605b–c, 606d). Hence in the earlier book Plato advocates an open and strict censorship of poetry, introducing certain charges hitherto unelaborated: (1) the falsity of its claims and representations regarding both gods and men; (2) its corruptive effect on character; and (3) its “disorderly” complexity and encouragement of individualism in the sphere of sensibility and feeling. 18 Music, observes Socrates, includes tales and stories. Those currently being told, he urges, especially those by Homer and Hesiod, should be suppressed on account of their degrading portrayal of the gods; or at most, they should be allowed circulation among “a very small audience.” These include Hesiod’s account of the struggles between Uranus and Cronus, and Homer’s depiction of Hera’s squabbles with Zeus. Even if allegorical, such tales are impermissible since “the young are not able to distinguish what is and what is not allegory” (II, 377c–378e). Such representations falsify the actual nature of God who is “good in reality” and cannot, further, be the cause of evil things as these poets and Aeschylus suggest (II, 379b–e). Nor should poets be allowed to present the gods as assuming manifold forms since, in actuality, “each of them, being the fairest and best possible, abides forever simply in his own form” (II, 381c–d). Finally, poets must not present the gods as deceitful since, affirms Socrates, “there is no lying poet in God” (d poetry is the right to name the divine, to authorize a particular vision of the divine world: for poetry, that world is presented as an anthropomorphic projection of human values centered on self-interest, a world of dark chance, irrational, in flux, and devoid of a unifying structure. The project of philosophy, in Plato’s hands, is to stabilize that world, drawing all of its scattered elements into the form of order and unity under which alone they can be posited as absolute and transcendent. I addition to its confused conception of the gods, poetry is also charged with speaking falsehood “about men in matters of the greatest moment,” portraying unjust men as happy, just men as wretched, and concealed injustice as profitable.. Indeed, Aristotle was more interested than Plato in empirical observation of natural phenomena, especially in biology, a difference which helps account for the fundamentally differing outlooks of the two thinkers. In 343 King Philip of Macedon invited Aristotle to serve as tutor to his son Alexander at his court in Pella. Aristotle attended for four years to the education of the future king and conqueror, after which he was commissioned by Philip to oversee the restoration of Stageira, now devastated by war, and to establish a legal code for the city. Having completed this project successfully, Aristotle returned to Athens to open his own school of rhetoric and philosophy. The school was called the Lyceum (it was dedicated to Apollo Lyceus, god of shepherds) and housed a large library, a natural history museum, and a 19 zoological garden. Unlike Plato’s Academy, whose students came mostly from the aristocracy, the Lyceum drew largely from middle-class citizens, and a rivalry developed between the two schools. Indeed, this rivalry effectively continued, in the works of subsequent thinkers and schools, for many centuries. The Academy placed emphasis on mathematics, metaphysics, and politics, while at the Lyceum natural science predominated, its curriculum including botany, music, mathematics, medicine, the constitutions of the Greek cities, zoology, and the customs of the so-called barbarians. Aristotle’s Metaphysics At the heart of Aristotle’s metaphysics and logic is the concept of substance. In his Metaphysics Aristotle states that the subject matter of metaphysics is “being qua being.”1 In other words, metaphysics studies existence in general and what it means for things to exist. Aristotle tells us in Posterior Analytics that before we can know what a thing is, before we can know its To have true knowledge, we must know the thing’s essence and the causes of it. For instance, we could be aware of the existence of something, such as “a noise in the clouds,” but until we are essentially aware of it, until we know what the thing is (thunder/the causes of thunder), we do not even know that it exists.2 Hence, the phrase “being qua being” does not refer to existence as an isolated, abstracted condition, but to existence as understood in its connections with essence. Given these considerations, Aristotle reformulates the question confronted by metaphysics (“what is being?”) as “what is substance?” (Met. I–IX, pp. 312–313). The Greek word for “substance” (ousia) can also be translated as “essence.” Hence the notion of substance comprehends the connection between existence and essence4 The notion of substance as formulated by Aristotle pervades the subsequent history of Western logic and metaphysics. It is indeed the underlying principle of Aristotle’s work in these areas, central as it is to his Categories as well as his Metaphysics. In the former, Aristotle basically holds that there are ten categories through which we can view the world: whatness (substance), quantity, quality, relation, place, time, position, state, action, and affection.3 A mere glance at these categories tells us that they still permeate our own thought about the world at the profoundest levels. When we think of any entity with a view to understanding it, we approach it in terms of its qualities, its relations to other 20 entities, its position in space and time, and so on. But, according to Aristotle, there must be an underlying substrate or substance to which these qualities and relations belong. Hence substance, for Aristotle, has primacy of place in these categories: it both underlies the other categories, as their substratum, and bears to them a relation of subject to predicate (the Greek word for category means “predicate”). This primacy of substance can be explained by referring to Aristotle’s definitions of it in the Metaphysics. In book V, it is defined as “the ultimate subject which cannot be predicated of something else” and as “whatever has an individual and separate existence”.” We can see, then, that all primary substance is individual, each denoting an indivisible unit. Secondary substance refers to many things, not one entity, as the genus “animal” would refer to all animals, and not to any particular animal. Aristotle tells us that the most outstanding characteristic of substance is that it can receive contrary qualifications or predicates while remaining numerically one and the same. For example, it could be predicated of the same man that he is both good and bad in various aspects. Substance seems to have the function, then, of an indivisible substrate to which various elements in the other categories can be attached, as predicates. From a historical perspective, it is worth remarking that Aristotle’s view of substance as the subject of predication represents a sharp break from the Platonic Forms, and was indeed to some extent worked out as part of Aristotle’s critique of those Forms. Aristotle sometimes expresses great impatience with the Forms, referring to them as “empty phrases and poetical metaphors” (. Aristotle urges, the Forms introduce a great deal of confusion into our explanations of the sensible world and are simply not necessary ( Aristotle urges that universals depend on particular things for their existence, not vice versa. A quality such as “blackness” can exist in a man but it has no independent life. Aristotle’s rejection of the world of Forms and his location of universals as simply describing things in this world represents a major shift from Plato’s vision and offers a metaphysics more centered on this world (rather than another, higher world). Though Aristotle would agree with Plato that reason has access to a higher knowledge than our senses, Aristotle insists that the senses are the starting point and the source of knowledge. He attempts to balance Plato’s unilateral emphasis on reason with due attention to our actual experience and to close observation of the world. In a broad 21 sense, the history of Western thought has often emerged as a conflict between these two visions: the idealistic Platonic vision which views reality as above and beyond our own world, and the more empirical Aristotelian view which seeks to find reality within our world. For example, we might observe that numerous particular animals have a given characteristic in common, the ability to live both on land and in water. From this we abstract the characteristic of “amphibiousness” and devise the category “amphibian” to group such animals together. In Aristotle’s view (one followed by most philosophy through the Middle Ages and extending even into the work of Kant and Hegel) it is universals, not particular things, which are real. Even though, in terms of immediate perception, particulars precede the universal, it is the universal which can explain the particular. In book XII of his Metaphysics, Aristotle says that, however we regard the universe as a whole, substance is its primary reality. So the notion of substance holds together the entire Aristotelian system, from the most meager level of existence to God who, as the ultimate or First Cause of the universe, is the ultimate guarantor of substance. Aristotle’s Poetics The Metaphysical and Ethical Contexts of the Poetics For Aristotle poetry and rhetoric had the status of “productive” sciences; these disciplines had their place in a hierarchy of knowledge; and Aristotle viewed them as rational pursuits, as seeking a knowledge of universals. Each element within this hierarchical order had its proper place, function, and purpose. Aristotle’s universe is effectively a closed system where each entity is guided by an internalized purpose toward the fulfillment of its own nature, and ultimately toward realization of its harmony with the divine.. In Nicomachean Ethics, he states quite clearly concerning productive activity that “the act of making is not an end in itself, it is only a means, and belongs to something else.”5 The purpose of art, like that of metaphysics, is to attain to a knowledge of universals. For Aristotle, the subject matter of art is the “cause” behind experiential fact. The Poetics, then, is a theoretical treatise on the nature and functions of poetry; it was part of a 22 broader course of philosophical study offered by Aristotle at the Lyceum. And part of its motivation was to oppose Plato’s powerful critique of poetry which condemned it on both moral and epistemological grounds. Aristotle’s Poetics has often been analyzed in terms of its prescriptions for tragedy, i Like Plato, Aristotle considers the question of whether “music” should form an integral part of state education, especially for children. “Music,” we need to recall, had a broad significance, encompassing not only performances using instruments and songs but also dancing, and it referred to the arts in general. The question Aristotle raises, then, is effectively about the value of what we might call a liberal education. It was seen earlier that Aristotle criticized Plato’s ideal republic as being confined within strictly utilitarian ends. Aristotle’s own state, in contrast, was directed toward “the highest good” as its ultimate purpose, and enabling men to live “the good life.” He even goes so far as to suggest that, at one level, the pleasure we derive from music might be an end in itself. However, he is quick to qualify this remark by adding that such pleasure is only an “incidental result,” and that the true nature of music lies in its being a stimulus to virtue and is expressed in its “effect on the character and the soul” (Pol., VIII.v). We can see here that, while Aristotle opposes a bland and mechanical utilitarianism, he yet insists that what gives music value is its potential use in education and in forming character. Typically, however, Aristotle suggests an organic connection between the pleasure derived from music and the virtue inspired by it. For virtue, says Aristotle, “has to do with enjoying oneself in the right way, with liking and hating the right things.” He concludes that “clearly there is no more important lesson to be learned or habit to be formed than that of right judgment and of delighting in good characters and noble actions” (Pol., VIII.v). conclusion concerning music is that, since it has “the power to induce a certain character of the soul... , it must be applied to education, and the young must be educated in it.”6 Music is all the more valuable in educating the young, says Aristotle, because it is pleasant. It is clear, then, that while the arts and poetry may have their own laws and offer pleasure, this pleasure is integral to a further, moral, aim which is institutionalized in education. In contrast with Plato’s ideal state, where it is viewed as an obstacle to morality, rationality, 23 and genuine knowledge, poetry would seem to have a positive function in Aristotle’s state. However, in his own way, Aristotle is just as censorious as Plato regarding the propriety of material to which children should be exposed: they should be shielded from artistic representations of “unseemly actions,” they must not be allowed to view comedies or scurrilous performances, and must in general be protected from any performance containing “wickedness or hostility” (Pol., VII.xvii). Aristotle’s empirical method, his acceptance of plurality, the teleology of both individual and state, and the principle of moderation. To these we might add the notions of unity, probability, necessity, rationality, universality, and truth. All of these notions, together with Aristotle’s ethical and political principles, underlie his views of the characteristics of good literature. Aristotle’s General Views of Imitation and Action At the core of Aristotle’s Poetics are two complex notions, imitation and action, which are imbued with both Aristotle’s metaphysical principles and his ethical/politicaldispositions. Like Plato, Aristotle holds that poetry is essentially a mode of imitation. But Aristotle propounds an entirely different view of imitation, one which leads him to regard poetry as having a positive function. For Plato, imitation itself embodied a step away from truth, since it produced an imperfect copy of the Form or essence of a given entity. In this sense, the entire world of physical phenomena for Plato was an imperfect imitation of the world of Forms. Poetry, for Plato, ranked even lower than the sensible world of appearances since it was obliged to imitate those appearances, which were already imitations of Forms. Aristotle, however, invests imitation with positive significance. Rather than viewing it as a necessarily denigrative activity, he sees it as a basic human instinct and allows it as an avenue toward truth and knowledge. In the Poetics he states that from childhood men have an “instinct” for imitation, and that what distinguishes man from other animals is that he is far more imitative (IV.2–3). Aristotle boldly adds that not just philosophers but all men in varying degrees find pleasure in learning. And human beings rely on imitation to learn; through this process they infer the nature of each object. Hence, for Aristotle, imitation is both a mode of learning and associated with pleasure. This view is reinforced in Aristotle’s Rhetoric where he infers that, since learning and admiration are pleasant, the imitative arts such as drawing, 24 sculpture, and poetry must also be pleasant. He holds that the pleasure lies not in the object which is imitated but in the process of imitation itself, which yields learning through a process suggests that we delight in imitation inasmuch as it yields a likeness of reality of inference.7 In his Politics, Aristotle also The very distance between artistic representation and reality which Plato derided is offered up by Aristotle as a source of pleasure, based upon contrast. This delight in realism is something he will address again in the Poetics. It is clear, then, that for Aristotle, the notion of imitation is heavily charged with moral and epistemological functions. The other crucial notion in the Poetics, that of action, is equally complex in Aristotle’s scheme. In the Politics Aristotle attempts to evaluate the relative merits of contemplation and action. It is clear that he places a high priority on action. He states that “virtue in itself is not enough; there must also be the power to translate it into action” (Pol., VII.iii). At one point he even proclaims that “happiness is action; and the actions of just and restrained men represent the consummation of many fine things.” As such, the active life will be best both for the state and the individual (Pol., VII.iii). However, Aristotle regards contemplation and intelligence, which are engaged in for their own sake, as even more active “because the aim in such thinking is to do well, and therefore also, in a sense, action” (Pol., VII.iii). What these statements indicate is that action, for Aristotle, whether it be physical or mental, communal or individual, has a moral end or purpose. Art imitates human action; but human action must have as its ultimate purpose “the Supreme Good ”. In the Ethics, the moral nature of action is brought out in more depth and detail. The notion of action involves a number of elements: the (efficient) cause of action is choice, and the cause of choice is “desire and reasoning directed to some end.” Hence, says, Aristotle, choice necessarily involves the exercise of intellect and a certain disposition of character (NE, VI.ii.4). Aristotle further explains that action which conforms to virtue requires certain conditions on the part of the agent: he must act with knowledge; he must deliberately choose the act; and the act must spring from “a fixed and permanent disposition of character.” As such, virtue results from the repeated performance of just and temperate actions (NE, II.iv.3). Aristotle holds that the objects of virtue, what virtue 25 is essentially concerned with, are feelings and actions (NE, II.vi.10–12). He defines virtue as “a settled disposition of the mind determining the choice of actions and emotions, consisting essentially in the observance of the mean relative to us... and it is a mean state between two vices, one of excess and one of defect” In general terms, then, the connection between poetic imitation and action might be described as follows. Poetry, as a productive art, is not an end in itself. Its purpose is to represent action, which according to Aristotle is an end in itself inasmuch as it seeks to be virtuous. Hence, the initial relationship between imitation and action is that of means and end. However, the connection between them is also underlain by the concept of the mean or middle way. Just as virtuous action will aim at the mean, art itself in its imitative or representative endeavors must aim at the mean and apply this as the standard in its productions. The Concept of Imitation in the Poetics Near the beginning of his text, Aristotle asserts that all the various modes of poetry and music are imitations. These imitations can differ in three ways: in the means used, in the kinds of objects represented, or in the manner of presentation. Given that Aristotle later suggests that the origins of the poetic art lie in natural causes, namely, our imitative nature and the pleasure we derive from learning through imitation, it would seem that the art of the poet is a formalization of impulses possessed in common by human beings. The second way in which artistic imitations differ from one another is in the kinds of objects they address. What is common to all arts, however, is that they imitate men involved in action (Poetics, II). As suggested earlier, the actions Aristotle has in mind are those which have a significant moral valency. The actions imitated, says Aristotle, must either be noble or base since human character conforms to these distinctions. What lies at the basis of both human action and human character, then, is morality: indissolubly tiedto the moral basis from which they proceed. Tragedy, says Aristotle, represents men as better than the norm, comedy as worse than the norm. While this respective deviation from moral realism yields the genres of tragedy and comedy, there is no poetic genre generated by moral realism or “likeness” to the norm 26 The contrast between poetry and history is taken up later in the Poetics where Aristotle offers some further general comments on imitation. It is not the function of the poet, maintains Aristotle, to narrate events that have actually happened, but rather “events such as might occur... in accordance with the laws of probability or necessity” (Poetics, IX). What distinguishes the poet from the historian is not that one writes in verse and the other in prose, but precisely the fact that the poet, unlike the historian, is not constrained by the obligation to express actual events. The conclusion Aristotle draws from this is in many ways far removed from our modern conceptions of poetry, history, and realism. He infers that poetry is more “philosophical” and “serious” (spoudaioteron) than history because poetry expresses what is universal (ta kathalou), while history merely deals with individuals. Another way of putting this is to say that poetry yields general truths while history gives us particular facts. Today, we tend to think of the poet as expressing general truths only through the treatment of particular objects and detailed situations; we think of history as not merely recounting a series of events but as descrying broad patterns within these events, and as being advanced from a variety of perspectives. However, some of our notions of realism, as formulated through the nineteenth century, share with Aristotle the insistence on probability or necessity. That poetry does not depict the details of actual events does not, for Aristotle, detract from its realism. What poetry expresses is the universal, which, for Aristotle, is more real than particular events. The poet expresses the inner structure of probability or causality which shapes events, and as such is universalizable and transferable to other sets of events. Another important difference between poetry and history emerges in section XXIII of the Poetics. The poet’s vision has a unity which the historian’s work lacks. History is concerned not with one action but with one period of time, dealing with a sequence of events whose diversity is not necessarily united by a single purpose or goal. The poet, however, must imitate a single action that is “whole” and “complete”; Toward the end of the Poetics Aristotle seems to have broadened his definition of poetic imitation, making it less exclusive. He now says that the poet must imitate in one of three possible ways. He must imitate things that were, things that are now or things that people say and think to be, or things which ought to be 27  Aristotle suggests that the criticism that a work of art is not a “truthful representation” can be met by the argument that it represents the situation not as it is but “as it should be.” The second new factor in the later definition of poetic imitation is an appeal to convention. Again responding to the possible criticism that poetry does not represent the truth, Aristotle urges that we can appeal to “men’s opinions.” For example, while a poet may not represent the gods truthfully, he is justified in presenting them in accordance with prevailing opinions and myths which are told about the gods. Aristotle’s acknowledgment that prevailing opinion cannot be simply dismissed takes a huge step toward suggesting that truth is not somehow transcendent and that it is realized within, not beyond, a human community. In his Rhetoric, Aristotle states that “truth is not beyond human nature and men do, for the most part, achieve it” (Rhet., 1355a). Tragedy is, then, an imitation of an action that is serious, complete and of a certain magnitude – by means of language enriched with all kinds of ornament, each used separately in the different parts of the play: it represents men in action and does not use narrative, and through pity and fear it effects relief to these and similar emotions. (Poetics, VI.2–3)8 The Greek word used for “action” is praxis, which here refers not to a particular isolated action but to an entire course of action and events that includes not only what the protagonist does but also what happens to him. In qualifying this action Aristotle again uses the word spoudaios, which means “serious” or “weighty.” As Aristotle’s later comments will reveal, this seriousness is essentially a moral seriousness. The word Aristotle uses for “complete” is telaios, which refers to a situation which has reached its end or is finished. And the word megethos refers to greatness, stature, or magnitude. It seems, then, that the subject matter of tragedy is a course of action which is morally serious, presents a completed unity, and occupies a certain magnitude not only in terms of importance but also, as will be seen, in terms of certain prescribed constraints of time, place, and complexity. Moreover, since a tragedy is essentially dramatic rather than narrative, it represents men in action, and a properly constructed tragedy will provide relief or katharsis for various emotions, primarily pity and fear. Hence the effect of 28